Flashback:
It is 1959, and I am standing in my new home laughing, because I am so happy and excited. I am excited to be in our brand new home, in a new development in West Hartford. Our new home is a split level, with a dining room, and a family room, and a half bath off the family room. It seems huge to me, compared to our small ranch house in East Hartford, which had only a living room, a kitchen, three bedrooms and one bathroom.
School in West Hartford is different than it was in East Hartford. In East Hartford, during math period I assisted the dullest girl in the class, I was sent down to lunch early to help collect lunch money, and I am sometimes asked to stay after school to help the teacher with a special project. Although I enjoy these special privileges, they are just intended to keep me busy, because I have already mastered the lessons. In West Hartford, I am working along with the rest of the class, the class designated for bright students. The work is more challenging and the overall experience is good. I am embarrassed, however, on the second day at school, when I wear one of my new school dresses for the second day in a row, as I always did in East Hartford. In West Hartford, all of the girls wear a different outfit each day of the week. In East Hartford, not everyone had a dress for each day of the week, but fortunately I do, and wearing the same dress two days in a row is a mistake I do not make twice.
One of the nice parts about being in a new neighborhood is making new friends. There are lots of kids around my age, and because everyone has just moved, everyone is interested in making friends. In fact, houses are still going up, and as we live there, more kids continue to pour in. The longer we live there, the more it seems as if everyone I meet is Jewish. I hear my parents comment that, although the neighborhood is new, the non-Jews have already started to move out. Although my parents view this as something of an insult, for me it is better than my neighborhood in East Hartford, where I was always the only Jewish girl in my class.
The majority of the influx of Jews is from the North End of Hartford. I know that area well, it is where my grandmother lives. I love to visit my Grandmother there. She takes me on walks to Mayron's bakery with its delicious rye bread, and to the local delicatessen.
But although my neighborhood is predominantly Jewish, the town overall is not. The homes are generally nice, and the school system is good. Therefore, the town attracts a variety of people whose families have either been comfortable for a while, or who's families are moving up thanks to the G.I. Bill and the economic boom following the second World War.
My family fits into the second category. My father was able to earn his engineering degree going to school during the day on the G.I. Bill, while he worked in the shop at Hamilton Standard during the day. Living in East Hartford or West Hartford, my father has Connecticut has a lot of engineers. Pratt and Whitney, Hamilton Standard, and Combustion Engineering are all in the Hartford area and are all major federal contractors. Colt is still one of the nation's largest guns manufactures guns, and the blue Onion dome over the major cold still presides over the rooftops of the city, as it has since before the civil war.
Interestingly, although Hartford was known as the Insurance capital of the world, it has also been a major manufacturer of guns and weaponry since the early 18th century. When Mark Twain moved to Hartford during , he extolled it for its beauty and its culture. His home was in an area largely populated by wealthy insurance company executives, just down the street from both the Hartford Insurance Company and the Aetna Insurance Company. When Twain wrote the Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court Yard, the Yankee he describes in a firearms engineer that uses his knowledge to use explosives to impress the medieval population that his power is greater than Merlin's.
Flashforward:
It is 1969, and the riots in the North End of Hartford following the assassination of Martin Luther King, are settling down. Even so, much of the area has been destroyed. Although driving through the North End of Hartford, down Albany Avenue, had been are usual way to get to downtown Hartford, where I have a summer job, my parents now advise me to go down Asylum Avenue. It doesn't take any longer and seems safer. The population of North End of Hartford is now almost completely African-American, and there is some percentage of this population, probably a small percentage, that seems to be openly hostile to whites. Or, perhaps they are just angry at everyone. In any event, after my Grandmother' suffered several incident's of harassment with stones being thrown at the windows of her apartment, she has relocated to elderly housing in the suburb of Bloomfield. My father and my brother, took the used golf clubs my father had purchased, to the free golf course in Pope park, in Hartford's North End, and were harassed and chased of the course by a group of angry black teenagers. Just a couple of years earlier, I had attended a
Despite these safety concerns, my parents are very supportive of my decision to volunteer through Hartford's Community Renewal Team, to volunteer to tutor some elementary school student in one of the low income housing projects in Hartford. The population of the housing project is almost entirely African-American, and its reputation is that because of gang violence, it is not a safe place for anyone. My Dad drops me off and picks me up from my tutoring sessions.
The girls a tutor are adorable, and their family is delightful. The girls are about one year apart in age, as I recall they were about 7 and 8. Their parents have just had a new baby, and he is beautiful. I remember realizing that I had never seen an African American new born baby before.
The family is very friendly to me, one reason is that
Thursday, October 5, 2023
Friday, September 11, 2020
Finding My Way Through Elul with Broadway Songs
During the Hebrew month of Elul, the month proceeding Rosh Hashanah, I usually spend some time in contemplation. I think over the past year, and I try to find ways that I can do more for, or behave better toward, the people in my life and society. This year, however, it has been especially hard because of the isolation due to the pandemic, and the devastation that the pandemic and certain recent governmental actions have caused so many. Feeling discouraged, I spent a few hours listening to broadway show tunes. As I listened to the songs, to my surprise, I found inspiration through the tunes and lyrics.
I realized that my feelings of discouragement are common feelings as I listened to the beautiful “Old Man River” from “Showboat”. Old man river is life, or eternity, or maybe God, flowing along as we try to deal with life’s hardships. As the lyrics say, “I get weary and sick of trying, I’m tired of living and scared of dying, but Old Man River, he just keeps rolling along.”
Listening to the song “Close Every Door to Me”, I was reminded that there can be hope even in difficult circumstances. The biblical character Joseph sings this song in Rice and Webber’s interpretation of the biblical story. While imprisoned Joseph sings, “Close every door to me, keep those I love from me, Children of Israel are never alone, for I know we shall find our own peace of mind, for we have been promised a land of our own.” His hope lies in God’s promise that we will arrive where we need to be, not only physically, but spiritually, as we find peace of mind.
The title song from “On a Clear Day” inspired me to realize that I can find my place in the universe if I take the time to stop and look around and to appreciate the beauty and eternity of the earth. “On a clear day, rise and look around you, and you’ll see who you are...you’ll feel part of every mountain sea and star, you can hear from far and near a world you’ve never seen before. And in a clear day, on a clear day you can see for ever and ever more.”
As I listened to more songs I found others that reminded me of the beauty of life and the sweetness of our blessings. “The Rhythm of Life” from “Sweet Charity” with its catchy tune and Chorus lyrics, reminded me of
the vibrancy of life, “The rhythm of life is a powerful beat, puts a tingle in your fingers and and a tingle in you feet,...to feel the rhythm of life, to feel the powerful beat, to feel the tingle in your fingers, to feel the tingle in your
feet...”
“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, ...snowflakes that stay on your nose and eye lashes, white silver winters that turn into springs, these are a few of my favorite things.” These are lyrics from “Sound is Muic’s” “Favorite Things”. They are familiar to most of us, but still serve as a reminder that blessings can be found in simple things.
Listening to songs at random, I was surprised to find that some quirky upbeat sings inspired me. The character who sings “Cockeyed Optimist” in “South Pacific” is a wartime nurse who remains optimistic. “They say the human race is falling on its face and doesn’t have too far to go..,.but I’m stuck like a dope with a thing called hope and I can’t get it out of my heart, not this heart.”
Even the song “Put On a Happy Face“ from “Bye Bye Birdie”, which puts a catchy to to that common expression, was an inspiration. It reminded me that the simple act of looking pleasant, despite our problems, can improve the world around us. “Pick out a pleasant outlook, lift up that noble chin, wipe off that full of doubt look, slap on a happy grin, and spread sunshine all over the place, just put on a happy face.”
When I listened to the lyrics of “ As Long as he needs Me” from “Carousel”, I heard the lyrics differently than I had heard them before. As a young girl, I had heard only the promise of undying romance. Now I heard the value of being steadfast to another even in hard times. I thought gratefully of good friends and living relatives, who have supported me during a long degenerative illness. I also thought of those who still need me, especially my grandchildren who have turned to me for comfort and support, even if only on Facebook, during this pandemic. I realized that I should be present for them for as long as I can. “As long as he needs me, that’s where I’ll always be, to cling on steadfastly, as long as he needs me.”
The times require us to be here too. If we can do nothing else, we can support and vote for leaders who will seek justice and harmony in our land.
In the musical “South Pacific” the characters struggle with the life and death issues that the war brings. As Americans, they also struggle with racism, as we do today. Oscar Hammerdtein’s brilliant song “You Have to be Carefully Taught” provides his perspective on racism.
“You have to be taught to hate and fear, it has to be taught from year to year, it has to be drilled in your dear little ear, you have to be carefully taught. You have to be taught to be afraid of people whose eyes are oddly made, and people who’s skin is a different shade, you have to be carefully taught.”
At this point in my life, when I am usually home, it’s hard to think what I can do to fight racism. Another song from Sweet Charity reminded me that there must be something I can do if I think about it. I can talk to my grandchildren about racism and history, and recommend books they can read. Although the song “There’s Gotta Be Something Better Than This” is sung in the movie by taxi dancers trying to improve their lives, the lyrics of determination inspired me to think how I can do better. As the song says, “There’s gotta be something better than this, there’s gotta be something more I can do, and when I find me something better to do, I’m gonna get up, I’m gonna get ou, I’m gonna get up, get out and do it.”
The song “Brotherhood of Man” from “Hoe to Succeed” made me realize that even if I can’t do as much as others, I should still try to do my best. I was surprised to hear a line of the song that says “mediocrity is not a mortal sin”. I love that line. It reminded me of the liturgy that says that God does not expect us to be as great as Moses, only to be our best selves. The song goes on to conclude that all of us (whether our abilities are great or mediocre) are part of “the Brotherhood of man”. As such we should be “dedicated to doing all we can” because of the “noble tie that binds all human hearts and minds.” The peppy beat and lyrics of the song gave me hope. And so I conclude this story of how show tunes inspired me with these aspirational” lyrics,
“Your lifelong membership is free, keep on giving each brothers all you can. Oh aren’t you proud to be, in that fraternity, the great big brother hood of man.
Tuesday, December 10, 2019
Sing Freedom’s Song
Today I feel the need to sing, out loud, with my friends and neighbors, to sing away our anger and our fear. To sing songs of freedom. To sing to drown out the voice of an American president who has said words that have threatened many Americans. Now he has singled out Americans who are Jewish to tell us how to vote. As if we voted with one voice. As if we did not vote as Americans.
Today, There are no more hootenannies, group sings, or sing alongs. But I remember the songs. I remember the lyrics, I remember the tunes. Songs never change, their truths are eternal.
I saw the movie “Yesterday”, in which only a few people on earth remembered the Beatles songs. I remember them. In college when people would sing and play the guitar, I could always provide the lyrics. I sang with others then, we all sang away our anger and our fear.
I am watching a special, on Public television, featuring folk singers from the 1960’s and 1970’s. Most don’t sing old folk songs. They sing songs composed during their era. They sing idealistic, anti-war, pro-humanity songs.
I am in a motel listening to the music while my husband sleeps. He is tired from our beach day beach day with our 11 year old grandson. We have had a beach day with him almost every year since he was a toddler. At 11, he still enjoys this tradition. He jumped in the ocean and swam and dunked under the water, all smiles. My husband joined him. The beach we go to is on Long Island sound. The waves are gentle, and people swim in the water. I watched from the shore. I used to love to swim in the salty water, every summer since I was a little girl. This stretch of Connecticut shore feels like home to me. Now I just dip my feet in the water, gripping my cane and my husband’s hand. But it’s worth it. I watch the sun sparkle on the waves, feel the ocean breeze blow on my bare arms and legs, and see my grandson’s smile.
As I recall my day, the folk music keeps playing. My favorite is Bobby Darin’s “Come and Sing a Simple Sing of Freedom.” He saw the need to sing then, we need to sing again. Several versions of “Turn, Turn, Turn” are played. It is Pete Seegers song with lyrics from Ecclesiastes. For everything there is a season.
Today, for me, many seasons have come together. It is a time of joy. I have recently been seriously ill and I am rejoicing to have made it to the beach with our grandson. It is a family tradition, a summer tradition. It is part of the American tradition of enjoying a summer vacation, whether at the shore, in the mountains, or sightseeing in our cities.
But today is also a day of anger and fear. Anger that a powerful man, the president of our country, has said words that threaten me. Fear, for my grandchildren, living in a country with increasing gun violence, where our leader feels free to threaten me and others with a claim of “disloyalty” if we don’t vote for him.
I will not dignify his comments by saying his name. I will only say that I will vote in accordance with my American values and my view of what our democracy should be. I will honor our founding fathers’ vision of a separation of church and state, by observing the religion I choose. I will honor the words George Washington wrote to the Congregation of the Touro Synagogue in Rhode Island, “to bigotry no sanction”.
I will sing. I will find other Americans to sing with me. Once again, we will sing songs of freedom. We will pledge our funds to politicians that share our values, and those funds will grow. We will speak and sing truth to power. We will do this as Americans, loyal Americans, raising our voices. We will cast our votes for those candidates that share the vision of an America where no one is intimidated based on the color of their skin, the religion that they practice, or the people that they love.
Let’s sing again America, let us sing!
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
My Turn to Vent
Flashback: It is January 31, 1971, and my husband John and I are promising to stay together for richer or poorer, better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.
Flashforward:
It is October 7, 2013, and once again, after I mention to someone that I have Parkinson's disease, the person proceeds to tell me how her life has been made very hard because her husband has Parkinson's disease also. There are many variations on this theme. There is, "My poor sister, her husband has Parkinson's disease too." There is, "my spouse had a stroke, but like you, he is uncomfortable driving and I have to drive him around and it's making me exhausted." There is, "I would have liked to take a big trip to Europe, but, like you, my spouse isn't comfortable traveling, so I can't go."
People, are you listening to yourselves? Somewhere in your comments is an implication that I have somehow, single handedly, set out to destroy my husband's life. Or perhaps just that they have tremendous sympathy for my husband, who, by the way, is feeling well at 64 and still practicing law and enjoying it. Meanwhile, I had to give up my practice in my 50's. In fact, while he is out running from hearing to hearing, getting new clients, and going to meetings, I am usually sitting at home nursing my aches and pains. But, oh well, that sure is tough on him. Or maybe I'm just selfish because I am unwilling to risk another infection by getting exhausted traveling abroad. My poor husband, with whom I have made two trips to Israel, rode on camels to Jordan, several trips to London, and literally countless trips to Paris, will have to restrict himself now to seeing our beautiful contiguous 48 states for a while. Poor fellow.
I work very hard at being cheerful, and when I can't do it on purpose, I am usually at least inadvertently optimistic. When I occasionally complain to John that friends don't ever ask me how I am doing (other than the usual perfunctory "how are you", or if we are visiting my daughter in the south "how y'all doin' today"), he responds that they do care, because they ask HIM how I am doing. Have I lost my capacity to articulate my feelings? I don't think so! So, I guess they are asking out of sympathy to him, because if I am not doing well, that is somehow hard on him.
People, I am still here, and my husband is alive and well, and having some of the best years of his life, thank you very much. I may need to nap every day, but that doesn't stop him from being out of the house 12 hours a day almost every weekday. I may get tired traveling, but we always stay in a suite, so he can have a room to check his e-mail and keep up with the office when I nap. I may not feel like cooking, but that doesn't mean he is tied down to the kitchen -- there are lots of places for takeout suppers on his way home from work.
Maybe I am being an inadvertent optimist after all. I am optimistic that my husband and I are still having a great life together, and, God willing, we will be for a while to come. After all, when I tell him that someone just complained to me that they are having a hard time because of their spouse's Parkinson's Disease, he always says, "Well, just be glad I'm not that person." And he isn't!
Flashforward:
It is October 7, 2013, and once again, after I mention to someone that I have Parkinson's disease, the person proceeds to tell me how her life has been made very hard because her husband has Parkinson's disease also. There are many variations on this theme. There is, "My poor sister, her husband has Parkinson's disease too." There is, "my spouse had a stroke, but like you, he is uncomfortable driving and I have to drive him around and it's making me exhausted." There is, "I would have liked to take a big trip to Europe, but, like you, my spouse isn't comfortable traveling, so I can't go."
People, are you listening to yourselves? Somewhere in your comments is an implication that I have somehow, single handedly, set out to destroy my husband's life. Or perhaps just that they have tremendous sympathy for my husband, who, by the way, is feeling well at 64 and still practicing law and enjoying it. Meanwhile, I had to give up my practice in my 50's. In fact, while he is out running from hearing to hearing, getting new clients, and going to meetings, I am usually sitting at home nursing my aches and pains. But, oh well, that sure is tough on him. Or maybe I'm just selfish because I am unwilling to risk another infection by getting exhausted traveling abroad. My poor husband, with whom I have made two trips to Israel, rode on camels to Jordan, several trips to London, and literally countless trips to Paris, will have to restrict himself now to seeing our beautiful contiguous 48 states for a while. Poor fellow.
I work very hard at being cheerful, and when I can't do it on purpose, I am usually at least inadvertently optimistic. When I occasionally complain to John that friends don't ever ask me how I am doing (other than the usual perfunctory "how are you", or if we are visiting my daughter in the south "how y'all doin' today"), he responds that they do care, because they ask HIM how I am doing. Have I lost my capacity to articulate my feelings? I don't think so! So, I guess they are asking out of sympathy to him, because if I am not doing well, that is somehow hard on him.
People, I am still here, and my husband is alive and well, and having some of the best years of his life, thank you very much. I may need to nap every day, but that doesn't stop him from being out of the house 12 hours a day almost every weekday. I may get tired traveling, but we always stay in a suite, so he can have a room to check his e-mail and keep up with the office when I nap. I may not feel like cooking, but that doesn't mean he is tied down to the kitchen -- there are lots of places for takeout suppers on his way home from work.
Maybe I am being an inadvertent optimist after all. I am optimistic that my husband and I are still having a great life together, and, God willing, we will be for a while to come. After all, when I tell him that someone just complained to me that they are having a hard time because of their spouse's Parkinson's Disease, he always says, "Well, just be glad I'm not that person." And he isn't!
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
My Alternate Universe
Flashback:
It is almost any year in our marriage, and my husband is encouraging me to join him in watching a science fiction show. Numerous versions of Star Trek, along with Dr. Who, Quantum Leap and Sliders have graced our television set. While I don't like shows with monsters who speak like humans, I have to admit that I do enjoy a good time travel show. Quantum Leap, for example, was always one of my favorites, leaping into another world, another life. I also enjoy the concept of an alternate universe. After all, the universe is so vast, who knows what could be out there.
Flashforward:
It is 2013, and while I never expected it, my world has changed. Oh, I'm at the same address I've been at for over 25 years, with the same husband I've had for 42 years, and often talking on the phone to the same sister I've had for 59 years. I speak with my own voice, I probably say the same old things, and appear to others to be nothing more than an older version of myself. The effects of over a decade of living with degenerative neurological and pulmonary disease, however, have altered my world. When I talk with friends and relatives who are near my age or even older, I often have the feeling that the world I encounter differs from their world. My world is slower, with more naps, less activity, and a kind of distracted inattention which sometimes requires me to focus to remember the time and the season, or the fact that I am cooking something on the range. I feel that I am living in my own alternate universe.
My universe is timeless. The ordinary sense of time does not exist. I float in and out of the day, judging time only by disciplining myself to look at a calendar or a clock. But I don't feel time passing. Day and night feel the same, and sleep makes sense whenever I feel dozy. In my universe each moment feels like forever. Each pleasure, therefore, is endless. Whatever is absorbing me is my world right then. Of course this means that each sadness is endless too. To avoid that consequence, in my world the focus is on pleasurable experiences. If I feel a little blue, there is no rule that makes me catch up on the news in the morning, I can watch an old movie instead. I can feel the pleasurable sensation of escape, and that becomes my world too, forever. If the phone rings, a cheerful conversation will fill my heart and mind, and when it ends, I can feel lost in the memory of it for as long as I please.
My universe doesn't have the rules that bind other people, I can float through my day however I want. There is no job, there are no committees, just a few pleasurable clubs, which I can manage as I wish. Book club books can be polished off in the 24 hours before the meeting. That can be my reading day, and I can immerse myself in the book so that it becomes my world. Laundry day can wait until I have nothing decent left to wear. I have lots of clothes, so no reason to rush. A T shirt and sweat pants can make me decent enough to open the blinds, or I can stay in my pajamas and keep the blinds shut. In the darkened room, I can linger before the images of the movies floating across the screen, dozing on and off, restarting and rewinding the recorded films. By the end of a five hour afternoon I will have watched a two hour movie. In my universe, that's good timing.
In my universe, I am constantly surprised by what I have to do in the coming week. There are doctors appointments I have made, lunches with friends, study groups I regularly attend. In my world, though, it's hard to remember, so when I check my calendar on Sunday evening, I can be pleasantly surprised by the activities I have planned. In my world, even my doctors seem like old friends. With appointments every 4 or six months, I see each of them more than I see many of my real friends anyway. They are all pleasant, and have soothing manners. They have given up on complaining about my weight, and seem to be enormously happy if I lose even a few pounds. I guess I can give them that pleasure.
In my universe, my preferred modes of travel differ from those of my friends and relatives. I don't care to travel on inexpensive airlines, I want an airline that actually assists passengers that need assistance. I prefer long layovers to short, and pay a premium to spend a pleasant hour or two relaxing in the airline's club. I happily check my luggage, no matter what the fee, rather than face the unpleasant aches and pains of lugging something heavy around. I am thrilled if the trip is short, so much less stiffness and fatigue that way. I love familiar places and things too. When I arrive, I want plenty of time to rest and sleep before I have to go site seeing or out to eat. Fancy restaurants are best at lunch, and evenings are best spent in a comfortable lounge chair with a high back that supports my neck. Itineraries should be planned with long lazy afternoons for napping.
In my universe, I am puzzled by people my age who rush, or do things quickly. I am puzzled that they do more than one of two things outside the house each day, or enjoy having plans each and every day. I don't understand how they manage it or why they care to live that way. I vaguely remember a woman with my name who lived that way, but she seems like a stranger now. I don't care any longer to talk to my peers about their numerous activities - but I remember that I have to listen to be polite. To be honest, I sometimes tune out when they start talking about their jobs and committees, their docenting and volunteering, their trips to foreign lands, and their projects around the house. What does that have to do with me, anyway, it's not a part of my universe. I like to hear about young people's activities, however, the younger generation of adults and the children. I am glad for them that they have this chance to be in a lively universe, it is good for their age.
In my universe, it is not a compliment to be told I am not old. I am old, at least I am old enough to get senior citizens rates, have plenty of aches and pains, and often use a cane. I want to experience old age, and I need to do it now, while there is time. You see, in my universe, it's a privilege to wake up each day and take a breath, and feel that drowsy few minutes before anything hurts, or any body part decides to move of its own volition.
My universe is filled with accomplishments and accolades too. I pat myself on the back for remembering an event or meeting, and another for remembering what time to leave in order to arrive on time. If I remember to leave enough time to blow dry my hair and put on make up, more applause. There's no real penalty, however, for letting my hair air dry and going make up -less, or even for forgetting my earrings or watch. If I can follow a conversations, and make it through a social event with no major spills, another award. I congratulate myself for being gracious when I receive embarrassing help. Like the stranger in the airport, who told me my sweater was on inside out. Or the people at my table who point out that there is food on my face, maybe on my cheek, often on my nose. Do they think I am a two year old? People I hardly know tuck in my tags and those annoying strings they put on clothing to make them easier to hang, and tell me when my shirt is half in and half out of my pants. Does it really matter anyway?
Perhaps I praise myself the most when I manage to make a meal without leaving out an ingredient. But who really cares if I forgot the pepper? I follow the rule not to leave the room when anything is on the range top. That way, I notice if it starts to burn right away, and I don't forget that I am cooking something. I always set the timer if I am baking. Besides, I make most of our dinners in the crock pot, where they can simmer all day without disturbing me.
Somehow, in my universe, I still know more than little children. I can make them a simple meal, give them a bath, and tuck them into bed with a bedtime story. I can even turn on the TV or put on a DVD. The children seem to to appreciate these skills. I know enough to make sure my husband is around for any overnight babysitting, I don't want to press my luck. The only risk I run is that while focusing on the children I may misplace something of my own. Last time it was my diamond engagement ring and wedding ring. I had put them in my pocket and then forgotten, and the rings fell out of the pockets when I threw the pants in the hamper. After sifting through the garbage to make sure I hadn't thrown the rings out entirely, they finally tumbled out after I shook out each item of clothes in the hamper. Mental note: leave rings in the jewelry box when babysitting.
Flashforward:
It is June 19, 2013. I suppose I could have told you my story in a different way. I could have said that after several years, I have resigned myself to being disabled. I could have said that I am good at keeping track of my medications, my doctors appointments, and even my grandkids, when I do watch them from time to time. I could have said that I take care of myself - doing my laundry, cooking meals for me and my husband, making social engagements. I could have mentioned too that I have learned to deal with fatigue by amusing myself with quiet activities such as books and movies, scheduling naps and days when I stay home to rest up, and limiting my travel.
I could have said that, and it would have been true. But what does that mean anyway? I prefer to believe that I have the privilege of living in a pleasant place, a place where no one worries about trivial things, where the simple things of life bring pleasure, and where the beauty of life is appreciated, each and every day. That's my alternate universe, and it's a pretty nice place after all.
It is almost any year in our marriage, and my husband is encouraging me to join him in watching a science fiction show. Numerous versions of Star Trek, along with Dr. Who, Quantum Leap and Sliders have graced our television set. While I don't like shows with monsters who speak like humans, I have to admit that I do enjoy a good time travel show. Quantum Leap, for example, was always one of my favorites, leaping into another world, another life. I also enjoy the concept of an alternate universe. After all, the universe is so vast, who knows what could be out there.
Flashforward:
It is 2013, and while I never expected it, my world has changed. Oh, I'm at the same address I've been at for over 25 years, with the same husband I've had for 42 years, and often talking on the phone to the same sister I've had for 59 years. I speak with my own voice, I probably say the same old things, and appear to others to be nothing more than an older version of myself. The effects of over a decade of living with degenerative neurological and pulmonary disease, however, have altered my world. When I talk with friends and relatives who are near my age or even older, I often have the feeling that the world I encounter differs from their world. My world is slower, with more naps, less activity, and a kind of distracted inattention which sometimes requires me to focus to remember the time and the season, or the fact that I am cooking something on the range. I feel that I am living in my own alternate universe.
My universe is timeless. The ordinary sense of time does not exist. I float in and out of the day, judging time only by disciplining myself to look at a calendar or a clock. But I don't feel time passing. Day and night feel the same, and sleep makes sense whenever I feel dozy. In my universe each moment feels like forever. Each pleasure, therefore, is endless. Whatever is absorbing me is my world right then. Of course this means that each sadness is endless too. To avoid that consequence, in my world the focus is on pleasurable experiences. If I feel a little blue, there is no rule that makes me catch up on the news in the morning, I can watch an old movie instead. I can feel the pleasurable sensation of escape, and that becomes my world too, forever. If the phone rings, a cheerful conversation will fill my heart and mind, and when it ends, I can feel lost in the memory of it for as long as I please.
My universe doesn't have the rules that bind other people, I can float through my day however I want. There is no job, there are no committees, just a few pleasurable clubs, which I can manage as I wish. Book club books can be polished off in the 24 hours before the meeting. That can be my reading day, and I can immerse myself in the book so that it becomes my world. Laundry day can wait until I have nothing decent left to wear. I have lots of clothes, so no reason to rush. A T shirt and sweat pants can make me decent enough to open the blinds, or I can stay in my pajamas and keep the blinds shut. In the darkened room, I can linger before the images of the movies floating across the screen, dozing on and off, restarting and rewinding the recorded films. By the end of a five hour afternoon I will have watched a two hour movie. In my universe, that's good timing.
In my universe, I am constantly surprised by what I have to do in the coming week. There are doctors appointments I have made, lunches with friends, study groups I regularly attend. In my world, though, it's hard to remember, so when I check my calendar on Sunday evening, I can be pleasantly surprised by the activities I have planned. In my world, even my doctors seem like old friends. With appointments every 4 or six months, I see each of them more than I see many of my real friends anyway. They are all pleasant, and have soothing manners. They have given up on complaining about my weight, and seem to be enormously happy if I lose even a few pounds. I guess I can give them that pleasure.
In my universe, my preferred modes of travel differ from those of my friends and relatives. I don't care to travel on inexpensive airlines, I want an airline that actually assists passengers that need assistance. I prefer long layovers to short, and pay a premium to spend a pleasant hour or two relaxing in the airline's club. I happily check my luggage, no matter what the fee, rather than face the unpleasant aches and pains of lugging something heavy around. I am thrilled if the trip is short, so much less stiffness and fatigue that way. I love familiar places and things too. When I arrive, I want plenty of time to rest and sleep before I have to go site seeing or out to eat. Fancy restaurants are best at lunch, and evenings are best spent in a comfortable lounge chair with a high back that supports my neck. Itineraries should be planned with long lazy afternoons for napping.
In my universe, I am puzzled by people my age who rush, or do things quickly. I am puzzled that they do more than one of two things outside the house each day, or enjoy having plans each and every day. I don't understand how they manage it or why they care to live that way. I vaguely remember a woman with my name who lived that way, but she seems like a stranger now. I don't care any longer to talk to my peers about their numerous activities - but I remember that I have to listen to be polite. To be honest, I sometimes tune out when they start talking about their jobs and committees, their docenting and volunteering, their trips to foreign lands, and their projects around the house. What does that have to do with me, anyway, it's not a part of my universe. I like to hear about young people's activities, however, the younger generation of adults and the children. I am glad for them that they have this chance to be in a lively universe, it is good for their age.
In my universe, it is not a compliment to be told I am not old. I am old, at least I am old enough to get senior citizens rates, have plenty of aches and pains, and often use a cane. I want to experience old age, and I need to do it now, while there is time. You see, in my universe, it's a privilege to wake up each day and take a breath, and feel that drowsy few minutes before anything hurts, or any body part decides to move of its own volition.
My universe is filled with accomplishments and accolades too. I pat myself on the back for remembering an event or meeting, and another for remembering what time to leave in order to arrive on time. If I remember to leave enough time to blow dry my hair and put on make up, more applause. There's no real penalty, however, for letting my hair air dry and going make up -less, or even for forgetting my earrings or watch. If I can follow a conversations, and make it through a social event with no major spills, another award. I congratulate myself for being gracious when I receive embarrassing help. Like the stranger in the airport, who told me my sweater was on inside out. Or the people at my table who point out that there is food on my face, maybe on my cheek, often on my nose. Do they think I am a two year old? People I hardly know tuck in my tags and those annoying strings they put on clothing to make them easier to hang, and tell me when my shirt is half in and half out of my pants. Does it really matter anyway?
Perhaps I praise myself the most when I manage to make a meal without leaving out an ingredient. But who really cares if I forgot the pepper? I follow the rule not to leave the room when anything is on the range top. That way, I notice if it starts to burn right away, and I don't forget that I am cooking something. I always set the timer if I am baking. Besides, I make most of our dinners in the crock pot, where they can simmer all day without disturbing me.
Somehow, in my universe, I still know more than little children. I can make them a simple meal, give them a bath, and tuck them into bed with a bedtime story. I can even turn on the TV or put on a DVD. The children seem to to appreciate these skills. I know enough to make sure my husband is around for any overnight babysitting, I don't want to press my luck. The only risk I run is that while focusing on the children I may misplace something of my own. Last time it was my diamond engagement ring and wedding ring. I had put them in my pocket and then forgotten, and the rings fell out of the pockets when I threw the pants in the hamper. After sifting through the garbage to make sure I hadn't thrown the rings out entirely, they finally tumbled out after I shook out each item of clothes in the hamper. Mental note: leave rings in the jewelry box when babysitting.
Flashforward:
It is June 19, 2013. I suppose I could have told you my story in a different way. I could have said that after several years, I have resigned myself to being disabled. I could have said that I am good at keeping track of my medications, my doctors appointments, and even my grandkids, when I do watch them from time to time. I could have said that I take care of myself - doing my laundry, cooking meals for me and my husband, making social engagements. I could have mentioned too that I have learned to deal with fatigue by amusing myself with quiet activities such as books and movies, scheduling naps and days when I stay home to rest up, and limiting my travel.
I could have said that, and it would have been true. But what does that mean anyway? I prefer to believe that I have the privilege of living in a pleasant place, a place where no one worries about trivial things, where the simple things of life bring pleasure, and where the beauty of life is appreciated, each and every day. That's my alternate universe, and it's a pretty nice place after all.
Monday, November 12, 2012
The Picture on my Grandmother's Wall - A Veterans Day Reflection
Flashback:
It is any year between 1950 and 1990, and I am visiting my Grandmother's apartment. These apartments grew increasingly small as I grew older, but there was one constant. In a prominent position on the living room wall, there always hung a large, framed, sepia colored picture of a smiling, handsome soldier, in dress uniform. The photograph was surrounded by a matting decorating with stars, within a large frame.
It was a picture of my Uncle Oscar, the only one of my Grandmother's four sons to have been killed in World War II, and my father's younger brother. Uncle Oscar was a pilot in the air force, and died overseas when his plane was shot down. He was 23 years old. At the time he died, the family had recently lost the boys' father to an early death from cancer. When my Grandmother received the telegraph announcing Uncle Oscar's death, she fainted, and had to be revived with smelling salts. My mother told me that on the day Uncle Oscar died, his picture, sitting on my parents', bureau fell over. It had never fallen over before.
Without anyone specifically telling us, my generation grew up knowing that life was precious, and not necessarily long. Besides losing Uncle Oscar, each of my parents had lost a parent while they were still in their teens. I believe my family honored the lives of these loved ones, by being a little more caring and loving to my generation. Both my parents and my Grandmother seemed to delight in showing the children a good time.
My Grandmother invited me for sleepovers without my siblings, gave me her undivided attention, and made me feel special. She passed on the family stories, and shared the books on her shelf. I moved within walking distance of her apartment when I was a young mother, and she delighted in my children as she had delighted in her grandchildren. We visited often, and she passed on family treasures to us, such as her father's kiddush cup, and her beloved sewing machine.
My parents made living a happy experience. When I was small, my father sang his children funny songs from the Vaudeville era or from Gilbert and Sullivan. He sang these songs almost every night, as he washed the dishes after supper, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his tie loosened around his collar. On weekends, my father taught us to play catch and to ride our bicycles. He even gave me extra help learning to jump rope. My parents, Grandmother, and aunts and uncles, always made sure that holidays were celebrated with ceremony, delicious food and family visits.
Family outings were a regular event. My parents always looked happy when we had a day at the beach. They would stake out a spot at the beach, smiling at the sun and the water, offering us an extra hard boiled egg or a piece of fruit from the picnic basket. Every summer we had rides in the country, picnics at a state park in the woods on warm nights, and weekend afternoons at a local pond. We always stopped for my father's favorite treat, "frozen custard", as it was called then, at the local Dairy Queen.
My parents were happy to be able to give us privileges that they could never dream of, growing up in the depression years. We had annual family vacations, weeks at summer camp, and new clothes each school year. We had trips to local museums and to the great museums in New York City, and lots of books on the shelves at home. We had religious school on Sundays, and birthday parties, and presents.
My parents were especially proud that they were able to send all four of their children to college, and that they never needed to ask the children to help support the family. Earnings from summer jobs were for college books and clothes. When my parents offered to send me on a junior year abroad, and I worried about paying them back for the extra cost, my father graciously said, "My parents did the best they could for me, we're doing the best we can for you, and you'll do the best you can for your children. That's how you'll pay me back."
Through all the happy times, Uncle Oscar was never forgotten. In part, this was accomplished by the ever present picture. The anniversary of his death was marked by the lighting of the traditional yahrzeit candle, and his name was listed each year in the Yom Kippur remembrance book.
There were also the yearly trips to the cemetery. Every Memorial day my family all piled into the car, and after a quick stop for a pot of red geraniums, went to the cemetery. Uncle Oscar was buried in a military cemetery, with rows of uniform markers. My father, however, knew the exact location of Uncle Oscar's grave. The pot of red geraniums was respectfully placed by the grave, and we all remained quiet and solemn as we passed a few moments, each with our own thoughts. Just once, in all those years, my father began to cry. "I never realized how young he was" my father said.
Beyond this, my Uncle Oscar's legacy lived on in a very special way. As my generation of the family grew and began to marry, religious intermarriage became the norm. Although in some families this was a problem, my family, including my Grandmother, was particularly tolerant. "Your Uncle Oscar was dating a non-Jewish girl, " she said, "and if he had only lived, I wouldn't have cared who he married."
Flashforward:
It is 2012, and, at the end of the PBS news hour, pictures of recently deceased military personnel are shown in a moment of silence, with their names, ranks and ages. To me, these pictures look like the picture of my Uncle Oscar, with the smiling handsome or beautiful proud faces. What bravery these sons and daughters of our nation must have had, what grief must their families be suffering. Each one of these brave souls will be mourned by a family, and will leave a legacy for future generations. How will their memories be honored by their families? How can we, their fellow citizens, honor their lives? Perhaps by flowers, perhaps by love, perhaps by courage. Perhaps by the way we raise the next generation. Perhaps by tolerance and understanding among all Americans. Our heros deserve no less.
It is any year between 1950 and 1990, and I am visiting my Grandmother's apartment. These apartments grew increasingly small as I grew older, but there was one constant. In a prominent position on the living room wall, there always hung a large, framed, sepia colored picture of a smiling, handsome soldier, in dress uniform. The photograph was surrounded by a matting decorating with stars, within a large frame.
It was a picture of my Uncle Oscar, the only one of my Grandmother's four sons to have been killed in World War II, and my father's younger brother. Uncle Oscar was a pilot in the air force, and died overseas when his plane was shot down. He was 23 years old. At the time he died, the family had recently lost the boys' father to an early death from cancer. When my Grandmother received the telegraph announcing Uncle Oscar's death, she fainted, and had to be revived with smelling salts. My mother told me that on the day Uncle Oscar died, his picture, sitting on my parents', bureau fell over. It had never fallen over before.
Without anyone specifically telling us, my generation grew up knowing that life was precious, and not necessarily long. Besides losing Uncle Oscar, each of my parents had lost a parent while they were still in their teens. I believe my family honored the lives of these loved ones, by being a little more caring and loving to my generation. Both my parents and my Grandmother seemed to delight in showing the children a good time.
My Grandmother invited me for sleepovers without my siblings, gave me her undivided attention, and made me feel special. She passed on the family stories, and shared the books on her shelf. I moved within walking distance of her apartment when I was a young mother, and she delighted in my children as she had delighted in her grandchildren. We visited often, and she passed on family treasures to us, such as her father's kiddush cup, and her beloved sewing machine.
My parents made living a happy experience. When I was small, my father sang his children funny songs from the Vaudeville era or from Gilbert and Sullivan. He sang these songs almost every night, as he washed the dishes after supper, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his tie loosened around his collar. On weekends, my father taught us to play catch and to ride our bicycles. He even gave me extra help learning to jump rope. My parents, Grandmother, and aunts and uncles, always made sure that holidays were celebrated with ceremony, delicious food and family visits.
Family outings were a regular event. My parents always looked happy when we had a day at the beach. They would stake out a spot at the beach, smiling at the sun and the water, offering us an extra hard boiled egg or a piece of fruit from the picnic basket. Every summer we had rides in the country, picnics at a state park in the woods on warm nights, and weekend afternoons at a local pond. We always stopped for my father's favorite treat, "frozen custard", as it was called then, at the local Dairy Queen.
My parents were happy to be able to give us privileges that they could never dream of, growing up in the depression years. We had annual family vacations, weeks at summer camp, and new clothes each school year. We had trips to local museums and to the great museums in New York City, and lots of books on the shelves at home. We had religious school on Sundays, and birthday parties, and presents.
My parents were especially proud that they were able to send all four of their children to college, and that they never needed to ask the children to help support the family. Earnings from summer jobs were for college books and clothes. When my parents offered to send me on a junior year abroad, and I worried about paying them back for the extra cost, my father graciously said, "My parents did the best they could for me, we're doing the best we can for you, and you'll do the best you can for your children. That's how you'll pay me back."
Through all the happy times, Uncle Oscar was never forgotten. In part, this was accomplished by the ever present picture. The anniversary of his death was marked by the lighting of the traditional yahrzeit candle, and his name was listed each year in the Yom Kippur remembrance book.
There were also the yearly trips to the cemetery. Every Memorial day my family all piled into the car, and after a quick stop for a pot of red geraniums, went to the cemetery. Uncle Oscar was buried in a military cemetery, with rows of uniform markers. My father, however, knew the exact location of Uncle Oscar's grave. The pot of red geraniums was respectfully placed by the grave, and we all remained quiet and solemn as we passed a few moments, each with our own thoughts. Just once, in all those years, my father began to cry. "I never realized how young he was" my father said.
The tradition which most made Uncle Oscar live on for us, was that my parents, when speaking to their children, always spoke of my father's younger brother as "Uncle Oscar". It did not matter that he had died before any of the children were born, Uncle Oscar remained an important part of the family. The very use of the term "Uncle", connoting both respect and a close familial tie, helped us to feel the loss to the family caused by his death.
More than this, my parents always always spoke of Uncle Oscar with love and respect. There was never bitterness, never regret. For example, my father told us that Uncle Oscar had almost died of lead poisoning from a pencil when he was a boy. We could still hear the worry in my father's voice as he related the story. My father also told us also that everyone had worried about Uncle Oscar because, after he had his tonsils removed, he couldn't walk. Finally, someone realized that Uncle Oscar had put his shoes on the wrong feet. My father would laugh with amusement and relief as if that cute child was right in front of him.
One time, my Grandmother showed me a picture of Uncle Oscar winding up a crank on an old fashioned car, with his trademark smile on his face. She smiled back at the picture. My mother always said that Oscar was the most handsome, and the most personable of all the brothers.
They always take the best of us, she mused.Beyond this, my Uncle Oscar's legacy lived on in a very special way. As my generation of the family grew and began to marry, religious intermarriage became the norm. Although in some families this was a problem, my family, including my Grandmother, was particularly tolerant. "Your Uncle Oscar was dating a non-Jewish girl, " she said, "and if he had only lived, I wouldn't have cared who he married."
Flashforward:
It is 2012, and, at the end of the PBS news hour, pictures of recently deceased military personnel are shown in a moment of silence, with their names, ranks and ages. To me, these pictures look like the picture of my Uncle Oscar, with the smiling handsome or beautiful proud faces. What bravery these sons and daughters of our nation must have had, what grief must their families be suffering. Each one of these brave souls will be mourned by a family, and will leave a legacy for future generations. How will their memories be honored by their families? How can we, their fellow citizens, honor their lives? Perhaps by flowers, perhaps by love, perhaps by courage. Perhaps by the way we raise the next generation. Perhaps by tolerance and understanding among all Americans. Our heros deserve no less.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Telling Stories
Flashback:
It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside. I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume. As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story. Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus. She did so by becoming the wife of the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish. When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.
Purim is a joyous holiday. It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.
The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale. There are other stories that captivate me more. These stories transport me to another time and place.
There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter. She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another. She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York. She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.
There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford. She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room. She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight. But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.
I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey. They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.
Flashforward:
It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim. I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story. Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown. At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago. At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year. I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again. This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more. I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.
The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area. It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events, foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites. It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.
Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell. These stories transport me to other times and places.
On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business. I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive. I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement. On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood. I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.
The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small. The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I feel proud.
It is March, 1958, and my father is taking my picture outside. I am wearing my blue dress coat and my Purim costume. As always, I am dressed as Queen Esther, the beautiful heroine of the Purim story. Queen Esther saved the Jewish people of Shushan, Persia, when she foiled the plot of the evil Haman, adivsor to King Ahasuerus. She did so by becoming the wife of the King and then revealing to him that she was Jewish. When the King realized that Haman's plans to kill all the Jews would result in the death of his beloved Esther, he put a stop to the plans, and executed Haman instead.
Purim is a joyous holiday. It is celebrated with costumes, a carnival, and hamentaschen, a triangular filled cookie, said to be shaped like Haman's hat. Best of all, when the Purim story is read in the synagogue, the children are encouraged to make as much noise as possible, booing and shaking groggers (noisemakers) to drown out the name of the evil Haman, whenever it is mentioned.
The Purim story is captivating, but it is a fairy tale. There are other stories that captivate me more. These stories transport me to another time and place.
There are the stories my grandmother tells, of life in the Ukraine in the early 1900's, gathering berries in her pinafore in the Spring, and staying inside for months through the long cold winter. She tells of the relatives she left behind, of how they were never heard from again after one pogrom or another. She tells of her life as a teenager on the lower East Side of New York. She talks with pride of her work as a seamstress, and laughs that her parents thought she was an old maid because she didn't marry until she was 23.
There are the stories my Mother tells about growing up in Depression Era Hartford. She talks of their tiny apartment, where she lacked privacy because she slept in the living room. She talks about owning two outfits, when one was being washed she wore the other, and about walking to girl scouts in shoes that were too tight. But she also talks of playing with the other kids in the apartment building when it rained, and that she was chosen to play Goldilocks in the school play because of her beautiful strawberry blond hair.
I love these stories because they are larger than the facts they convey. They tell of finding the strength to go on, of finding happiness in unexpected places, of the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that one day my story will be a part of these stories, part of our family history, and I feel proud.
Flashforward:
It is March 7, 2012, and once again, it is Purim. I consider going to the synagogue to hear the Purim story. Although it is a holiday with large appeal to children, I have often gone to hear the story since my children have been fully grown. At times, I had been motivated to go because I gave a ride to a disabled adult in our community, who had become a friend, but she passed on several years ago. At times, my husband and I drove up to Newton, Mass, to attend the service with our grandchildren, but John's work schedule does not allow that this year. I consider going just to enjoy the joyous atmosphere, and to hear the story once again. This year however, I have an opportunity to hear other stories, stories that will captivate me more. I choose to take advantage of that opportunity, and get ready to attend our monthly writer's group meeting at the Town and County Club.
The Town and County Club provides a unique opportunity for cultural enrichment for women in the Hartford area. It's activities include luncheon and dinner speakers, musical presentations, discussion groups on books and current events, foreign language conversation groups, and trips to museums and historical sites. It's members come from many backgrounds, and articulately express a wide range of views on any subject.
Of all of these activities, I especially look forward to the writer's group, and to the stories that the women will tell. These stories transport me to other times and places.
On this night, I hear the story of a young couple in Depression Era Nebraska, gamely trying to start a new business. I hear the story of a widow in Virginia during the Civil War, and her struggle to keep her farm going and to keep her children alive. I am transported to a town in England, where a young American boy tries to fit into a new culture, and to the home of an aging couple, trying to adjust to retirement. On this night I am given a window into personal stories: the story of a woman who reaches out to help others by bringing her dog on visits to a nursing home, and the story of a mature woman recalling family gatherings of her childhood. I tell the story of one Passover, when many of the guests made an effort to attend, despite suffering from assorted maladies at the time.
The stories are endless, stories of lives well lived, of struggles to get by, and struggles to understand, of triumphs large and small. The stories reflect the simultaneous difficulty and joy of living. I know that my stories are now a part of these stories, part of the history of these diverse American women, and I feel proud.
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